The Boy in the Courtyard

Jungkook blinked awake with a start.

This time, he wasn’t in a rice paddy or surrounded by farmers or geese. Now he was lying on a firm floor that smelled faintly of sandalwood and starch, with fabric rustling softly somewhere behind his ears. His brain itched, figuratively, but possibly also literally, as a feather-brush danced across his forehead.

“Is it awake?” someone asked.

“It he, not it,” another voice snapped. “And stop brushing him like a shrine statue, you’ll smudge the eyebrows.”

Jungkook opened one eye. A servant girl was crouched over him with a powder brush the size of a broom. Behind her stood two more figures: one teenage boy holding a folded robe with gloved hands, and a stern older woman gripping a basin of steaming water.

“Where…” he croaked, trying to sit up.

The girl shrieked and dropped her brush. “It’s possessed!”

“HE,” the woman snapped again, “is not possessed. He’s a guest. Or a... sky-bride. We’re still not clear on that.”

Jungkook sat up fully now, head pounding. His clothes were gone, again, and replaced with some kind of paper-thin white under-robe. His hair had been slicked back and tied up like a historical drama extra. Even his ears had been wiped clean. He looked down at himself, then at the room. Tatami floors. Sliding doors painted with cranes. And one very aggressive soap basin steaming in the corner.

“Where am I?”

“The outer hall of Gosan Palace,” said the older woman. “And you're about to meet the Crown Prince.”

“Oh, great,” Jungkook muttered. “Can’t wait to explain Instagram to a royal.”

They hauled him to his feet before he could protest, shoving a clean stack of folded garments into his arms. The girl beamed proudly. “We thought pale blue would suit your spirit aura.”

“Do I have a spirit aura?”

“Not really,” said the boy. “But you talk in your sleep. You said something about lip balm and world domination.”

“That tracks.”

Minutes later, Jungkook was being dragged, gracefully, but still very much against his will, through a long stone corridor lined with guards. The outfit they’d stuffed him into was definitely trying to murder him. Layers of silk, awkward slippers, and an outer robe so stiff it might have been armor in another life. He waddled like a swan with a back injury.

They led him out into an open-air courtyard, ringed with cherry trees and arched gates. It was massive, sprawling, way too clean for a place that didn’t have janitors. The moment his foot touched the polished stones, every head turned.

Dozens of palace staff were training, walking, or just existing when he appeared, and they all stopped.

He was very aware that his hair looked like a wet duckling and that the blue sash around his waist was riding far too high.

“I come in peace?” he offered, flashing a hesitant V-sign.

No one laughed.

Instead, a trumpet blasted.

From the far end of the courtyard, a procession of horses appeared. Guards in silver armor flanked a single rider dressed in navy silk, half his hair pulled back in a ribbon. The man rode like a painting. Still, tall, effortlessly terrifying. The air changed around him. Even the trees seemed to lean back.

Jungkook stared.

And kept staring.

The rider slowed to a stop as he approached. He looked directly at Jungkook.

Eyes like cut obsidian. A mouth sculpted for displeasure.

Holy hell.

It was him.

Not just a prince. The prince. The one from the painting. The one from the sketch. The one who looked like he could either bless your crops or have you executed for breathing too loud near his tea.

Jungkook’s brain short-circuited.

The prince dismounted with the grace of a thousand years of inbreeding and indignation. He walked forward, robes fluttering, boots silent.

Someone whispered, “His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Taehyung.”

Jungkook blurted, “Oh my god, it’s you.”

A few of the guards moved slightly, hands twitching toward their swords.

Taehyung raised a single elegant brow. “Do I know you?”

“No, but I know your face. Not in a creepy way. It’s just, you were in my sketchbook.”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, not like you, but a version of you. Or like… a cosmic hint of you. A hallucination? Okay, I’m going to stop talking.”

Taehyung didn’t blink. “I should hope so.”

Jungkook coughed. “Sooo… nice palace. Very shiny.”

There was a long pause. The silence was deep, heavy, suffocating.

Then: “Escort the sky-bride to the peach chamber,” Taehyung said flatly, turning on his heel.

“Wait, what? What’s a peach chamber? That sounds like either a prison or a dessert.”

He was dragged again.

The Peach Chamber, as it turned out, was neither delicious nor particularly threatening. It was a large guest room with peach-colored floor cushions, peach blossoms painted on the walls, and actual peach slices sitting on a tray beside steaming tea.

Jungkook plopped onto a cushion and sighed dramatically.

The girl who’d powdered him earlier popped in through the side door.

“You survived,” she said, setting down a robe.

“Barely. I think he wants me dead.”

“He didn’t unsheathe his sword. That’s practically a marriage proposal.”

Jungkook rubbed his face. “I’m not supposed to be here. I was just trying to get away from scandal and dispatch alerts, not fall into ancient Korea.”

“You’re a time-traveling star soul,” she said cheerfully. “And you look fabulous. That’s enough for today.”

A knock on the sliding door interrupted them. A young cook with ink-stained fingers peeked in. “Delivery for... the foreigner?”

“That’s me,” Jungkook said.

The cook rolled in a small cart with rice cakes, dumplings, and pickled radish. “Compliments of the royal kitchen. Or more accurately, compliments of Duri.”

Jungkook perked up. “Duri?”

“She says you owe her a performance.”

He blinked. “I haven’t even met her yet.”

“She knows. She says your dramatic collapse in the paddies was amateurish and she expects better.”

“Is this place full of weirdos or is it just me?”

“Yes.”

Jungkook spent the next hour sitting by the peach-scented window, chewing on sticky rice and trying to figure out if he was having a breakdown or an adventure.

Down in the courtyard, he saw Prince Taehyung again, walking alone, slower this time. From this angle, he didn’t look like a myth or a painting. Just a guy who walked like he carried a mountain on his back.

Jungkook whispered to himself, “You’ve definitely drawn that face before.”

And outside, as if hearing it on the wind, Taehyung paused.

Just for a moment.

Then kept walking.

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